Chapter Text
The chicken coop had been crumbling for months, but the farmer was pretending it wasn’t.
A little settling here, a gap in the boards there – nothing she couldn’t ignore if she tried hard enough. The door didn’t close all the way sometimes. The floor felt soft in the northwest corner. The whole structure leaned just slightly to the left, but only if you really looked. It was a proper walk-in coop, big enough to stand and move around inside – her grandfather had built it that way decades ago, back when he'd kept over two dozen birds.
But that morning, something finally gave.
Not catastrophically – the building didn’t collapse, didn’t even shift much. But when she went out to let the chickens into their run, the interior pop door wouldn't open. Not sticking, like usual. Wouldn’t open. The frame had warped enough overnight that the small door was jammed solid, trapping the chickens inside the coop, and when she put her shoulder into it, she felt the whole wall flex in a way that walls definitely shouldn’t flex.
The farmer stood there, phone in hand, boots still unlaced, listening to her chickens complain loudly about the delayed breakfast service.
“Okay,” she said out loud. “We’re done pretending.”
This was her second year on her grandfather’s farm. She’d made a decision to be confident this spring – competent, capable, someone who had things under control. Not someone who’d let a building deteriorate until basic functions like “opening the door” became impossible.
She walked around to the side access panel – the one she usually used for cleaning – and managed to get it open enough to let the increasingly angry chickens out into their run. They streamed past her with outraged clucking, one particularly irritated hen giving her an accusatory look and pecking the worn toe of her boot.
“Jeez, Peanut! I know,” she muttered, finally addressing the swarm of chattering hens. “I’m calling someone right now.”
She pulled out her phone and texted Robin:
The response came back almost immediately:
An assistant. That was new. Robin usually worked alone or with Clint on the bigger jobs.
She pocketed her phone and surveyed the damage in the morning light. The foundation had rotted through where it met the ground – probably years of water damage, maybe since before her grandfather died. One more thing he’d meant to fix and never got around to. One more thing she'd inherited along with the land, along with the responsibility and the weight of trying to uphold the legacy of a farm that had been her only constant growing up.
Her father's military career had meant a childhood of temporary base housing, different schools every few years, friends she lost as soon as he got new orders. But summers here – those had been hers. The farm had given her something steady to return to, a place that remembered her even when everywhere else forgot. Her grandfather had made sure of that, teaching her to collect eggs and pull weeds and read the weather in the clouds. When he died and left her the property, her father had been the one to encourage her not to sell it right away, to spend some time here before making any decisions. He'd known what she needed before she did: a place to belong.
Now the land was hers to care for, and she was still learning what that meant.
A squirrel chittered from the oak tree by the pond, unbothered. Dew caught on the parsnip saplings she’d planted last week, each droplet holding a tiny, inverted world. Everything else on the farm was waking up, quiet and normal, completely indifferent to the fact that her chicken coop had finally crossed the line from “concerning” to “actually broken.”
Her grandfather had always said the land remembered – remembered the care you gave it, the seasons you worked through, the loving hands that plucked ripe fruits from their vines and fed innocent animals, the mornings you greeted in spite of your aching muscles, and the roots you set down as you tried to build a life.
She wasn’t sure what the land remembered about her yet. Probably that she was good at ignoring problems until they demanded attention.
The inside of the chicken coop reeked of ammonia and wet straw. She’d been meaning to clean it for three days, but three days ago she’d been extremely hungover. Two days ago, she’d been bed-rotting, wallowing in undeserved self-pity, hiding from the world. And yesterday she’d been in town, neglecting to return a library book that would soon be overdue – Mary Oliver’s Devotions, borrowed from the poetry section.
Gunther had recommended it in late winter, sensing she might benefit from the comfort of words that made the world feel less heavy. The book had surprised her. She’d expected flowery nature poems, pretty but insubstantial, the kind of thing people bought for coffee tables and never actually read.
Instead, Oliver wrote with a directness that felt almost confrontational – “Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life?” Someone had written in the margins: This. Ask this. Every. Day.
The farmer had read through most of the book on her walk home from the library, moving slowly down the path, stopping to reread passages that landed with particular weight. The intensity of it made even this morning’s (less extreme) hangover feel heavy in a different way – less like punishment, more like the consequence of not asking herself Oliver’s question. What was she planning to do? So far: survive, maintain, avoid thinking too hard about whether Shane would text. Ignore a slowly dying chicken coop until the door literally wouldn’t open anymore.
With the speed at which she read it she could have returned the book the next day but was drawn in further by the notes in the margins. If she were being honest, she would have admitted that she was enamored by their attentive additions, that whoever had marked up this library copy understood something she was still learning: that paying attention was itself a kind of devotion. That witnessing – really seeing – required presence, required showing up even when showing up felt impossible.
“And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything? / And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for? / And have you changed your life?” The notes read – Beauty requires witnessing. Be present.
The margins felt like a conversation she was eavesdropping on. Someone wrestling with the same questions she was circling: How do you learn to be present? How do you stop performing your life and start actually living it? Their handwriting was precise but not rigid, the observations thoughtful without being pretentious.
Trying not to think about the book in her backpack, about the marginal notes that felt like they’d been written specifically for her, about the fact that she was supposed to return it today but –
“You do not have to walk on your knees / for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.” The margin note had underlined it twice and had written – remember this when the Voice gets loud.
The book said: “You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.” The margin note said: This is the hardest thing. Letting yourself want without apology.
Standing in her chicken coop with a hangover and the reality of expensive repairs looming, the farmer thought: maybe she could learn that. Maybe she could learn to want things clearly, to witness her own life instead of performing it, to ask Oliver’s question and actually listen for the answer. To fix things before they broke instead of pretending everything was fine.
And maybe she’d ask Gunther about that handwriting. About who else had checked out Devotions recently. About whether this curiosity counted as presence, or if it was just another form of avoidance dressed up differently.
One wild and precious life. Hers. Starting whenever she chose.
But in that moment, her only confidants were chickens and her chickens didn’t care about poetry or her small existential crises. They wanted food. They wanted their eggs collected. They wanted a clean roost to come back to when they were done foraging in the field.
She collected the eggs from the nesting boxes, careful not to disturb the meticulous arrangements of straw her hens had assembled for laying. The eggs were warm in her hands. She held one up to a dusty shaft of sunlight that poured in through the holes in the roof, admiring the ample golden yolk visible behind the milky shell. Her hens might be feisty, she thought, but they always produced reliable, delicious eggs.
As she moved about the coop, she tried not to think about how much the repairs would cost. Robin was consistent and fair, but this wasn’t going to be cheap. The foundation needed replacing. Multiple walls. Probably the roof too. While she was in her head, she also made a mental note to check the bee boxes later – they’d been humming strangely, agitated or excited, she couldn’t tell which.
Suddenly Leah appeared on the other side of the coop’s screen door.
“Knock knock! Coffee delivery!” she said brightly. The farmer was pulled out of her thoughts and nearly dropped the egg she was holding.
“You look...” Leah paused, clearly editing herself, “...busy.”
“That’s one word for it.” The farmer nestled the egg carefully into the basket. “The animals don’t care if you’re – ” She stopped herself. Tired? Hungover? Regretting the taste of cheap beer and cheaper decisions?
Haley materialized beside Leah and instantly wrinkled her nose. “Yoba, it smells like a barn threw up in here.”
“It’s a chicken coop, Haley. That’s kind of its thing.”
“Still.” Haley thrust a latte toward her, the Pierre’s General Store logo peeking over the cardboard sleeve. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
The warmth bled into her palms. The farmer took a sip – too sweet, too much vanilla, exactly what she needed. “Thanks.”
She left the chickens foraging in their field and latched the fence, then the three of them strolled up to the house, chatting lightly.
Leah settled onto the porch steps, her paint-stained hands cradling her own coffee. “We poked our heads in before we realized you were with the chickens and we noticed Shane’s jacket on your floor. Again.” Leah and Haley exchanged a private glance that was equal parts concern and disgust. The farmer pretended not to notice their judgment, keeping her eyes fixed on the long grass swaying gently among a stand of maple trees.
“He left early,” was the only response she could manage. He always left early. A half-empty beer can on the porch, his jacket forgotten on her bedroom floor. The placement of these items felt deliberate, like he’d left pieces of himself behind to mark territory while refusing to actually claim it.
“He always leaves early.” Leah’s voice was gentle, but firm. Artist’s eyes – seeing too much, as usual. “You deserve better than someone who only shows up when it’s convenient.”
The farmer glanced through the window and caught a glimpse of her cat, Baby, stretching lavishly on Shane’s crumpled jacket, kneading the fabric with unsheathed claws, probably luxuriating in the smell of pizza grease and Marnie’s algae-based chicken feed. “I know.”
“Do you?” Haley sat beside Leah, their shoulders touching in that easy way that made the farmer’s chest ache. “Because knowing and doing something about it are different things.”
“I think – I guess – I’m still figuring it out. Maybe?” The farmer stumbled through her words, the hangover making her thoughts feel like they were wading through mud. “The thing with Shane is… it’s uncomplicated. That’s the appeal. It doesn’t ask anything of me except to show up when he texts.” She heard how pathetic that sounded the moment it left her mouth. “The important shit to me right now is keeping the farm alive. Making sure I don’t completely fail at the one thing my Grandpa trusted me with. Finding my place here…” she trailed off on her half-completed thought, not meaning to get this deep this early in the morning.
She picked at the label on her coffee cup, avoiding their eyes. The silence that followed felt weighted. Leah and Haley exchanged one of those looks that meant they were having an entire conversation without words.
“The Valley's changed since you got here, yah know,” Leah said finally, her voice warm enough that the farmer had to blink back unexpected tears. “Can’t you feel it?”
She could. The Valley’s magic thrummed under her feet, pulsed in the soil, whispered on the wind. The Community Center stood restored now, its rooms full of life again. The Junimos had even appeared at her doorstep last week with a rock covered in intricate carvings, making chittering sounds she somehow understood as their deep and eternal gratitude.
“I feel it,” the farmer admitted. “I mean, I think the Valley is starting to feel more like home than anywhere else ever has. Even more than this farm used to feel when I was a kid visiting for the summer.”
“That’s because it is your home, duh.” Haley examined her nails, but there was affection in her voice.
“I need to finish up before Robin gets here,” the farmer said, glancing at her phone. Still an hour before 9am. “She’s coming to assess the coop. It’s…pretty bad.”
“But probably fixable though, right?” Leah asked gently.
“If I can afford it.” The farmer tried to keep her voice light, but anxiety leaked through anyway.
“You can,” Haley said with more certainty than the farmer felt. “And hey – let’s get together Friday? Emily’s been experimenting with specialty cocktails, which will probably be…interesting. A chill hang. Very low stakes.” The farmer smiled at the prospect. “Elliott’s also been organizing these weekly readings at the library,” Haley added. “They’re kind of cringey sometimes, but there’s always wine.”
The farmer nodded, noncommittal, but something in her chest loosened slightly. A year ago, she’d been alone in an overgrown mess, drowning in uncertainty. Now the Valley held her in a web of connections – some messier than others, but all real. Her grandfather had left her more than land and memories; he’d left her a home to grow into.
After Leah and Haley left, the farmer showered, changed into clean jeans (that were only slightly muddy), and shoved Shane’s faded jacket into her backpack along with the Mary Oliver book. Baby meowed plaintively as she headed for the door.
“You’re fed. You’re fine. Don’t guilt-trip me.” Baby’s golden eyes narrowed in feline judgment.
She had just enough time to make it to town and back before Robin arrived.
The bike ride to town had become meditative over the past year. She knew every curve of the path, every seasonal bloom. In spring, it was wild daffodils and dandelions, the latter of which she still foraged – partly for salads, partly because she amused herself by saying she was having “weeds” for dinner.
The Valley had been accepting her, slowly. The first year had been hard – back-breaking work, steep learning curves, blisters, loneliness, and long winter nights that tested her resolve. But somewhere along the way, it shifted. She and the forest spirits were exchanging gifts. The Wizard had invited her to his tower for tea. She'd learned the rhythms of the seasons, anticipating what the land needed the way Grandpa used to.
"You found your anchor," her father had said during their last video chat, pride brimming in his voice. He understood her need for roots better than anyone – he'd watched her cling to those summer visits to the farm like lifelines during a childhood of constant upheaval. When her grandfather died and left her the property, she'd been ready to sell it immediately, convinced she wasn't capable of the kind of commitment the farm required. But her father had seen what she couldn't yet: that the Valley could do for her now what the farm had done when she was young. It could give her a place to belong.
She hung Shane’s jacket on a fencepost outside the ranch, assuming Marnie would probably find it, wash it, and fold it with quiet care. Then she continued toward town. The library appeared through the spring green – weathered wood and stained glass catching the light, one of her favorite buildings in town. She leaned her bike against the side of the building, comforted by the thought of Gunther inside, cataloguing something ancient and slightly cursed.
She returned the worn collection of Mary Oliver poems, reluctant to let it go – reluctant to end the quiet conversation she’d been having with the anonymous hand that had filled its margins.
“Hey, Gunther,” she began, shifting her feet and pretending to study the return ledger at the circulation desk, “do you happen to know who checked this out last?”
He glanced up from the desk, brow furrowing in thought, studying the cover. “Hmm. Devotions… Oh, I believe you’re the first to check it out.” He smiled faintly. “Sergeant Sigurd Bear donated it to our collection not too long ago. From his personal library.”
She blinked. “Oh.”
Sig Bear. The name clicked into place with a face – the guy from East Scarp, impossible to miss, as he was well over six-feet tall, with blue hair and more tattoos than bare skin. She’d seen him at the library a handful of times over the past year, usually in the poetry or natural history sections, moving through the stacks with a quiet that seemed incongruous with his appearance. They’d never spoken, just exchanged the occasional “hey” of people who recognized each other as regulars in a shared space.
His book. His handwriting in the margins. His questions, his observations, his careful attention to beauty and presence.
“Why?” Gunther asked, curious.
“No reason,” she said, too quickly.
He nodded, the way people do when they know not to press. She slid Leaves of Grass across the counter, and he stamped it without another word.
Outside, the morning light had shifted – softer now, the air heavy with pollen. She had her answer. And she didn’t quite know what to do with it.
When she parked her bike beside the mailbox she was slightly winded from pedaling too hard to ensure she was home in time to meet Robin. Baby greeted her at the door, letting out a small squeak and offering her a soothing blink before leaning into the farmer’s legs. She scooped him up, burying her face in his soft black and white fur. He smelled like dust and sunshine, and she treasured the animal’s uncomplicated affection.
Baby chirped, asking to be put down.
She set him gently on the back of the couch and checked her phone. 8:55am. Robin would be here any minute, with her mysterious assistant. The farmer took a deep breath, looked at the listing coop, and thought about Mary Oliver’s question one more time.
What was she going to do with her one wild and precious life?
Fix the chicken coop, apparently. And maybe – just maybe – let herself want things clearly enough to fix them before they broke.
It was a start.